


Worth A Thousand Stars

by The_BloodyEagle



Category: Fargo (2014)
Genre: Geez why don't I just spoil the whole thing?, Mentioned foster care, Paper stars, Wrench thinks Numbers is dead, but he's not
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-05
Updated: 2016-07-05
Packaged: 2018-07-21 15:16:20
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,675
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7392718
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/The_BloodyEagle/pseuds/The_BloodyEagle





	Worth A Thousand Stars

Wrench had heard the story from some kid of poor immigrants. His parents had died in a car crash and he had no family, and ended up staying in the same home as Wrench and Numbers for a few weeks. He spoke little to no english and wrote even less, so how he had imparted this tale unto Wrench was a mystery. But the story remained with him all the same.

According to the boy, if you fill a jar with a thousand paper stars then your greatest wish will be granted. When Wrench told Numbers this he had just scoffed and rolled his eyes, but all the same he tolerated the jar that Wrench carried everywhere.

He tolerated it as they moved from foster home to foster home.

He tolerated it when they would be hit, starved or just plain ignored.

He tolerated it when the indian stabbed the two teenagers and grabbed them from the park, threw them in his car and drove away without saying a word.

He tolerated it while the same indian changed his face.

He tolerated it as they carried packages back and forth, from one shady neighborhood to the next.

He tolerated it the first time that Wrench killed a man and puked all night.

He tolerated it as the indian built an empire.

Soon the jar sat in the back of a closet in a small apartment in the middle of Fargo, a thick layer of dust coating its glass, while the stars stayed bright and fresh. Wrench was rummaging through the closet, looking for his favorite gun (he was certain that Numbers had hidden it from him. He never misplaced his firearms.) when it nearly toppled from the shelf. He caught it, and after rubbing away some of the dust his face lit up and he ran out into the living room to show Numbers.

_Look what I found!_ He signed, placing the jar on the table where Numbers was reading.

_What?_ His partner looked slightly annoyed as he inspected the jar. Then he sighed and rolled his eyes with a groan (though he could only assume the groan). Not that thing again. Wrench stuck out his tongue and began to gesture wildly to Numbers, who looked away to ignore him until his phone caught his attention.

_Jergen says we have a job in Duluth concerning H-e-s-s._ Numbers frowned. _Get your shit packed, apparently the boss wants us there pronto._ Numbers picked up the book and walked into the bedroom, then walked out carrying a duffel bag which he tossed onto a chair.

_But I swear if you start making those fucking stars again while you’re driving, I’ll cut your balls off._

~*Timeskip*~

He didn’t even bother to take off his snow caked loafers before picking something up and throwing it against a wall. The next victim of his rage was a wooden chair, then some dirty dishes from the sink and a coffee mug that was still half full.

Only after the small apartment that he used to share was very wrecked did Wrench stop and collapse to the floor. He sobbed silently, trying to stifle the pain that wracked his body.

After he had lain there for an unknown amount of time he sat up, and wiping away the tears with calloused hands he began trying to put the apartment back in order. As he was picking up all the books (Numbers’ books) that he had knocked off the table, something caught his eye.

The dust-covered jar, which had somehow survived the rampage Wrench had gone on earlier, was sitting in the center of the table, the stars twinkling at Wrench.

One quick run to an art supply store later, Wrench came back to the apartment, carrying several reams of construction paper and a pair of safety scissors. He quickly got to work, cutting long strips of paper and folding them into precise stars. He estimated that he had a head start of about 300 or so stars, and he didn’t plan on stopping till he had all one-thousand.

He sat in the other wooden chair till the sun set. Till the light ran out and he was working in the dark, refusing to divert from his task. He was a machine, cut, fold, drop, repeat. He continued this till his eyelids began to droop. Till he decided to close his eyes for just a minute to rest. And before he knew it he was far away in the land of dreams, holding his other half in his arms.

***

Wrench still doesn’t know what woke him up for sure. Maybe it was the fact the light had come on down the hallway. Or some vibrations in the floor from footsteps. Or maybe just some finely-tuned sixth sense life as a hitman had sharpened. But whatever the reason he sat up suddenly in what he judged to be the early hours of the morning, light only just beginning to peak over the horizon. And someone else was in his apartment.

Jar of stars now forgotten, Wrench stood and crossed over the kitchen floor, taking a pistol out from where they kept the utensils. The light was on in the hallway, just past the entrance (the foyer, as Numbers would say) and Wrench tried to move as lightly as he could before pulled back on the hammer of the gun.

Apparently cocking the hammer of a gun makes a sound, because whoever was in the apartment with him, turned swiftly and threw the coat over Wrench, blinding him. He dropped the gun in an attempt to get the coat out of his face, but before he could the person had rushed him and planted a fist in his stomach. He grunted and tried to kick out in the interloper’s general direction, and a soft body bending around his foot assured him that he had kicked his target. But then another foot slammed into his knee, sending him crashing to the floor, and on top of the stranger. Finally he managed to untangle himself from the coat, and he tossed it away and gripped the intruder’s neck with his hands as fists bombarded his chest, before stopping suddenly.

_W-r-e-n-c-h?_ A shaky, tentative finger carved on his chest before falling to the floor. The red cleared away from Wrench’s vision and left him looking face-to-face with a familiar bearded man.

His hands recoiled in shock, and Numbers began coughing furiously, red starting to seep out from under white bandages that were wrapped around his neck.

_Get off me asshole,_ Numbers signed in between hacks, and Wrench scrambled backwards, propping up on his hands as he stared at Numbers, his brain numb, and he felt quite certain that he was still dreaming.

_Great, you popped my stitches,_ Numbers glowered at him and stood shakily, catching himself on the counter and bending over with another coughing fit. After that fit subsided he reached into a sweater pocket and pulled out a role of bandages and some cotton, and he began adding another layer of bandages to the already very thick collection around his neck.

_What?_ He turned and glared at Wrench, who was still sitting on the floor, gaping at the apparent apparition standing in his kitchen.

_You can’t be here._ Wrench finally managed to sign, and Numbers’ face fell.

_You know, if you didn’t want to be my partner anymore you could have just said so. You didn’t need to leave me in a hospital surrounded by cops!_ Numbers replied furiously. _I’ll just get my shit, and then I’ll go, you baby._ He turned away from Wrench and stomped into the living room. Wrench saw the light go on, and then Numbers was back in the kitchen.

_What the fuck did you do to the place!? And why is my favorite mug in several pieces?_ He crossed his arms and stood over the hitman, who was gaping back up at him.

_You’re not really here._

_What?_

_She said you were dead._ Wrench was standing, looming over Numbers who was glaring back, bewildered.

_Who said what?_

_The deputy from Lester’s office. She said you were dead._ Wrench insisted.

_Well she was wrong, obviously!_

_I’m dreaming. I’m dreaming._ Wrench shoved past Numbers and strode into the living room and to his bedroom, slamming the door shut behind him. He tossed himself onto his bed and buried himself under his pillows before falling into a fitful sleep.

***

According to his alarm clock it was almost noon, and something smelled good. Wrench peeled the covers off of himself, his chest aching from the bullet wounds and the strange dream he’d had. And to top it all off a neighbor was making pancakes and they smelled delicious.

Resigning himself to a breakfast of a few granola bars, he walked out of his room, only to have a sock thrown at his face.

_You ready to stop talking crazy or what?_ Numbers was glaring at him, though it was hard to take him seriously when he was wearing an apron and holding a spatula. A faint red line stood out against the white bandages, and Numbers looked pale. Wrench gaped at Numbers once again, who stared back, pancakes sitting on a plate on top of the stove, waiting to be taken to the table and devoured.

You’re alive? W-what-

_Long story short M-a-l-v-o slit my throat. I managed to sort of stop the bleeding with my scarf. Someone must’ve heard me cause next thing I know everything hurts and I’m moving and people are yelling and its really bright. Then the next time I wake up I’m chained to the bed and a key is sitting on my lap with this note._ Numbers tossed a piece of paper onto the table and Wrench picked it up and opened it.

_You got lucky._

_So, do we have any maple syrup?_ Numbers was asking, but Wrench was hugging him and maybe the pancakes were cold by the time they got around to being eaten, but that’s okay.


End file.
